"livia" poems - Hello Poetry

In rows like crumpled paper set, The way one might design a brooch, There sets a sparkle down so purely Capital, beyond reproach and sure She is the blackest flea who sits Upon an old green dog, now should You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath— But in Irish she's plain, mightily named, Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got Dank habits and linnets lament the silent Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took To the air, but the swans, they've landed, To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,' And so becomes a changeling child's Fair city, for in her anointed proximity, Gracious white birds do bathe and molt, Supplied as I can tell, she looks black- Pooled in clusters, long side her creases. Stout nectar flows in near every nook And cranny, but yer man, he's never Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids, Swimming spirals round like buggies Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens By drinking their dew. O Dublin town, She wends her ways and rows her houses Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia— Who like a stem of blood, stabs right To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked, She's bloomed large, into one grandeous Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled— A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach- Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon The doons. In dream, I flocked to her Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd Repose and there I spied, from mackerel Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!

In rows like crumpled paper set, The way one might design a brooch, There sets a sparkle down so purely Capital, beyond reproach and sure She is the blackest flea who sits Upon an old green dog, now should You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath— But in Irish she's plain, mightily named, Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got Dank habits and linnets lament the silent Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took To the air, but the swans, they've landed, To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,' And so becomes a changeling child's Fair city, for in her anointed proximity, Gracious white birds do bathe and molt, Supplied as I can tell, she looks black- Pooled in clusters, long side her creases. Stout nectar flows in near every nook And cranny, but yer man, he's never Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids, Swimming spirals round like buggies Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens By drinking their dew. O Dublin town, She wends her ways and rows her houses Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia— Who like a stem of blood, stabs right To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked, She's bloomed large, into one grandeous Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled— A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach- Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon The doons. In dream, I flocked to her Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd Repose and there I spied, from mackerel Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!

0

Mar 17, 2013

Mar 17, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC

In rows like crumpled paper set, The way one might design a brooch, There sets a sparkle down so purely Capital, beyond reproach and sure She is the blackest flea who sits Upon an old green dog, now should You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath— But in Irish she's plain, mightily named, Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got Dank habits and linnets lament the silent Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took To the air, but the swans, they've landed, To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,' And so becomes a changeling child's Fair city, for in her anointed proximity, Gracious white birds do bathe and molt, Supplied as I can tell, she looks black- Pooled in clusters, long side her creases. Stout nectar flows in near every nook And cranny, but yer man, he's never Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids, Swimming spirals round like buggies Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens By drinking their dew. O Dublin town, She wends her ways and rows her houses Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia— Who like a stem of blood, stabs right To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked, She's bloomed large, into one grandeous Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled— A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach- Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon The doons. In dream, I flocked to her Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd Repose and there I spied, from mackerel Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!

In rows like crumpled paper set, The way one might design a brooch, There sets a sparkle down so purely Capital, beyond reproach and sure She is the blackest flea who sits Upon an old green dog, now should You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath— But in Irish she's plain, mightily named, Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got Dank habits and linnets lament the silent Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took To the air, but the swans, they've landed, To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,' And so becomes a changeling child's Fair city, for in her anointed proximity, Gracious white birds do bathe and molt, Supplied as I can tell, she looks black- Pooled in clusters, long side her creases. Stout nectar flows in near every nook And cranny, but yer man, he's never Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids, Swimming spirals round like buggies Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens By drinking their dew. O Dublin town, She wends her ways and rows her houses Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia— Who like a stem of blood, stabs right To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked, She's bloomed large, into one grandeous Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled— A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach- Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon The doons. In dream, I flocked to her Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd Repose and there I spied, from mackerel Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!

0

Sep 30, 2012

Sep 30, 2012 at 3:36 PM UTC

In rows like crumpled paper set, The way one might design a brooch, There sets a sparkle down so purely Capital, beyond reproach and sure She is the blackest flea who sits Upon an old green dog, now should You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath— But in Irish she's plain, mightily named, Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got Dank habits and linnets lament the silent Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took To the air, but the swans, they've landed, To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,' And so becomes a changeling child's Fair city, for in her anointed proximity, Gracious white birds do bathe and molt, Supplied as I can tell, she looks black- Pooled in clusters, long side her creases. Stout nectar flows in near every nook And cranny, but yer man, he's never Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids, Swimming spirals round like buggies Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens By drinking their dew. O Dublin town, She wends her ways and rows her houses Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia— Who like a stem of blood, stabs right To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked, She's bloomed large, into one grandeous Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled— A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach- Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon The doons. In dream, I flocked to her Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd Repose and there I spied, from mackerel Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!

In rows like crumpled paper set, The way one might design a brooch, There sets a sparkle down so purely Capital, beyond reproach and sure She is the blackest flea who sits Upon an old green dog, now should You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath— But in Irish she's plain, mightily named, Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got Dank habits and linnets lament the silent Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took To the air, but the swans, they've landed, To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,' And so becomes a changeling child's Fair city, for in her anointed proximity, Gracious white birds do bathe and molt, Supplied as I can tell, she looks black- Pooled in clusters, long side her creases. Stout nectar flows in near every nook And cranny, but yer man, he's never Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids, Swimming spirals round like buggies Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens By drinking their dew. O Dublin town, She wends her ways and rows her houses Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia— Who like a stem of blood, stabs right To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked, She's bloomed large, into one grandeous Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled— A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach- Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon The doons. In dream, I flocked to her Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd Repose and there I spied, from mackerel Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!

0

Apr 13, 2013

Apr 13, 2013 at 12:31 PM UTC

In rows like crumpled paper set, The way one might design a brooch, There sets a sparkle down so purely Capital, beyond reproach and sure She is the blackest flea who sits Upon an old green dog, now should You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath— But in Irish she's plain, mightily named, Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got Dank habits and linnets lament the silent Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took To the air, but the swans, they've landed, To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,' And so becomes a changeling child's Fair city, for in her anointed proximity, Gracious white birds do bathe and molt, Supplied as I can tell, she looks black- Pooled in clusters, long side her creases. Stout nectar flows in near every nook And cranny, but yer man, he's never Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids, Swimming spirals round like buggies Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens By drinking their dew. O Dublin town, She wends her ways and rows her houses Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia— Who like a stem of blood, stabs right To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked, She's bloomed large, into one grandeous Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled— A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach- Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon The doons. In dream, I flocked to her Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd Repose and there I spied, from mackerel Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!

In rows like crumpled paper set, The way one might design a brooch, There sets a sparkle down so purely Capital, beyond reproach and sure She is the blackest flea who sits Upon an old green dog, now should You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath— But in Irish she's plain, mightily named, Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got Dank habits and linnets lament the silent Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took To the air, but the swans, they've landed, To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,' And so becomes a changeling child's Fair city, for in her anointed proximity, Gracious white birds do bathe and molt, Supplied as I can tell, she looks black- Pooled in clusters, long side her creases. Stout nectar flows in near every nook And cranny, but yer man, he's never Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids, Swimming spirals round like buggies Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens By drinking their dew. O Dublin town, She wends her ways and rows her houses Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia— Who like a stem of blood, stabs right To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked, She's bloomed large, into one grandeous Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled— A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach- Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon The doons. In dream, I flocked to her Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd Repose and there I spied, from mackerel Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!

0

Sep 17, 2014

Sep 17, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC

In rows like crumpled paper set, The way one might design a brooch, There sets a sparkle down so purely Capital, beyond reproach and sure She is the blackest flea who sits Upon an old green dog, now should You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath— But in Irish she's plain, mightily named, Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got Dank habits and linnets lament the silent Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took To the air, but the swans, they've landed, To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,' And so becomes a changeling child's Fair city, for in her anointed proximity, Gracious white birds do bathe and molt, Supplied as I can tell, she looks black- Pooled in clusters, long side her creases. Stout nectar flows in near every nook And cranny, but yer man, he's never Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids, Swimming spirals round like buggies Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens By drinking their dew. O Dublin town, She wends her ways and rows her houses Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia— Who like a stem of blood, stabs right To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked, She's bloomed large, into one grandeous Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled— A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach- Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon The doons. In dream, I flocked to her Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd Repose and there I spied, from mackerel Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!

. In rows like crumpled paper set, The way one might design a brooch, There sets a sparkle down so purely Capital, beyond reproach and sure She is the blackest flea who sits Upon an old green dog, now should You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath— But in Irish she's plain, mightily named, Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got Dank habits and linnets lament the silent Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took To the air, but the swans, they've landed, To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,' And so becomes a changeling child's Fair city, for in her anointed proximity, Gracious white birds do bathe and molt, Supplied as I can tell, she looks black- Pooled in clusters, long side her creases. Stout nectar flows in near every nook And cranny, but yer man, he's never Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids, Swimming spirals round like buggies Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens By drinking their dew. O Dublin town, She wends her ways and rows her houses Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia— Who like a stem of blood, stabs right To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked, She's bloomed large, into one grandeous Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled— A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach- Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon The doons. In dream, I flocked to her Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd Repose and there I spied, from mackerel Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!

0

Feb 15, 2016

Feb 15, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC

. In rows like crumpled paper set, The way one might design a brooch, There sets a sparkle down so purely Capital, beyond reproach and sure She is the blackest flea who sits Upon an old green dog, now should You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath— But in Irish she's plain, mightily named, Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got Dank habits and linnets lament the silent Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took To the air, but the swans, they've landed, To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,' And so becomes a changeling child's Fair city, for in her anointed proximity, Gracious white birds do bathe and molt, Supplied as I can tell, she looks black- Pooled in clusters, long side her creases. Stout nectar flows in near every nook And cranny, but yer man, he's never Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids, Swimming spirals round like buggies Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens By drinking their dew. O Dublin town, She wends her ways and rows her houses Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia— Who like a stem of blood, stabs right To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked, She's bloomed large, into one grandeous Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled— A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach- Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon The doons. In dream, I flocked to her Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd Repose and there I spied, from mackerel Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!

41

From Publius to Livia Livia, I write to renounce your fields, My sweat no longer yours to claim. My harvests fed the eternal city, Yet you see only Gaius and his shadow, Marcus. ... Blind to the furrows I plowed, The terraces I raised, the grapes I nurtured, I tamed wild Ceres before you came, Turning forest to field, field to farm. ... Then you arrived, trailing discord’s hound, Gorging on Gaius’s hollow praise, Stealing credit for my toil, Casting me as a shade on your wall. ... I prayed to the Capitoline Triad, Offered a white bull to Jupiter, king, Begging radiant Sol to burn through your guise, And bless my path with brighter horizons. ... To Juno, I burned frankincense and myrrh, Pleading ****** to sweep you astray, Your pets adrift on Sicilian shores, Left to Polyphemus’s wrathful gaze. ... To Minerva, I poured my own wine, Urging her to unmask your arachnid soul, Your arrogance a web of self-woven lies, Dagger-tipped legs stained with stolen blood. ... The gods have heard, Livia. Your weave unravels. My fields await under noonday sun, While yours wither in my absence, Your perfection a fading, frail deceit. Signed, PERTINAX

0

Jul 7, 2024

Jul 7, 2024 at 10:44 AM UTC

LRThompson

The Farm

From Publius to Livia Livia, I write to renounce your fields, My sweat no longer yours to claim. My harvests fed the eternal city, Yet you see only Gaius and his shadow, Marcus. ... Blind to the furrows I plowed, The terraces I raised, the grapes I nurtured, I tamed wild Ceres before you came, Turning forest to field, field to farm. ... Then you arrived, trailing discord’s hound, Gorging on Gaius’s hollow praise, Stealing credit for my toil, Casting me as a shade on your wall. ... I prayed to the Capitoline Triad, Offered a white bull to Jupiter, king, Begging radiant Sol to burn through your guise, And bless my path with brighter horizons. ... To Juno, I burned frankincense and myrrh, Pleading ****** to sweep you astray, Your pets adrift on Sicilian shores, Left to Polyphemus’s wrathful gaze. ... To Minerva, I poured my own wine, Urging her to unmask your arachnid soul, Your arrogance a web of self-woven lies, Dagger-tipped legs stained with stolen blood. ... The gods have heard, Livia. Your weave unravels. My fields await under noonday sun, While yours wither in my absence, Your perfection a fading, frail deceit. Signed, PERTINAX

36

HITHERING AND TITHERING WATERS OF.. Aaw sure she's my own little Finnegans Wake. For my little skeowsha language is lava the mind is molten flowing. She catches tones and hones in on the last word. "pleaseyawannanicecupof...TEA?" She knows how to stick question marks on things like "...sweets?" The thunder scares her on Thursday & becomes Thundersday. The flies bother her on Friday... becomes Flieday. Not realising she is quoting Mr, Joyce following in his WAKE. Or she makes up her own "ONESDAY...TWOSDAY WEDDINGDAY...FATTERDAY SOMEDAY!" She my little trinketotes my dear ***** Dumpling. I read her to sleep. Not a peep when Anna Livia Plurabelle... tells her tale. Beside the tickling waters of. Beside the chuckling waters of. Beside the laughing waters of. She loves the music of it all. "Again!" she agains it! " Can't hear with the waters of. The chittering waters of. Night now. Tell me, tell me, tell me elm. Night night! Tellmetale of stem or stone. Beside the rivering waters of.. Hithering tithering waters of. Night."

0

Jun 18, 2017

Jun 18, 2017 at 6:02 PM UTC

donall-dempsey

HITHERING AND TITHERING WATERS OF..

HITHERING AND TITHERING WATERS OF.. Aaw sure she's my own little Finnegans Wake. For my little skeowsha language is lava the mind is molten flowing. She catches tones and hones in on the last word. "pleaseyawannanicecupof...TEA?" She knows how to stick question marks on things like "...sweets?" The thunder scares her on Thursday & becomes Thundersday. The flies bother her on Friday... becomes Flieday. Not realising she is quoting Mr, Joyce following in his WAKE. Or she makes up her own "ONESDAY...TWOSDAY WEDDINGDAY...FATTERDAY SOMEDAY!" She my little trinketotes my dear ***** Dumpling. I read her to sleep. Not a peep when Anna Livia Plurabelle... tells her tale. Beside the tickling waters of. Beside the chuckling waters of. Beside the laughing waters of. She loves the music of it all. "Again!" she agains it! " Can't hear with the waters of. The chittering waters of. Night now. Tell me, tell me, tell me elm. Night night! Tellmetale of stem or stone. Beside the rivering waters of.. Hithering tithering waters of. Night."

49

Bolted junkyard and the absenteeism flits me winding up.. Counting the preumbra of Columba livia on those marmalade hue of maudlin chillness.. As it commixes up onto wafting airborne: drifting over the scattered cumulonimbus. Far flocking flappers . 80° collateral to peeking atomic number 10. Oh crystalline form of pure carbon.. All mighty massif . All parallel to 180°. 99 sometimes . 69 and 36 degree. minus the 13, it sways... the oscillating stripes. And the vivid blazing heap of splitting cotton-balls .. metamorphosing into some voodoo like Magical. magnetic. amethyst horizon Devouring the fading dodger wide blue . Then restoration again. The alter coequal to dreary cawing And these paranoiac utterance... The phantasm. The illusion.. and eye.. skidding off-track the reality. Detaining every grasp of it.

0

Jun 11, 2017

Jun 11, 2017 at 12:19 PM UTC

vikshipta

| Coiled |

Bolted junkyard and the absenteeism flits me winding up.. Counting the preumbra of Columba livia on those marmalade hue of maudlin chillness.. As it commixes up onto wafting airborne: drifting over the scattered cumulonimbus. Far flocking flappers . 80° collateral to peeking atomic number 10. Oh crystalline form of pure carbon.. All mighty massif . All parallel to 180°. 99 sometimes . 69 and 36 degree. minus the 13, it sways... the oscillating stripes. And the vivid blazing heap of splitting cotton-balls .. metamorphosing into some voodoo like Magical. magnetic. amethyst horizon Devouring the fading dodger wide blue . Then restoration again. The alter coequal to dreary cawing And these paranoiac utterance... The phantasm. The illusion.. and eye.. skidding off-track the reality. Detaining every grasp of it.

29

HITHERING AND TITHERING WATERS OF.. Ahhh sure she's my own little Finnegans Wake. For my little skeowsha language is lava the mind is molten forever flowing. She catches tones and hones in on the last word. "pleaseyawannanicecupof...TEA?" She knows how to stick question marks on the end of things like: "...sweets?" The thunder scares her on Thursday & becomes Thundersday. The flies bother her on Friday... becomes Flieday. Not realiasing she is quoting Mr, Joyce following in his WAKE. Or she makes up her own "ONESDAY...TWOSDAY WEDDINGSDAY...FATTERDAY SOMEDAY!" She my little trinketoes my dear ***** Dumpling. I read her to sleep. Not a peep when Anna Livia Plurabelle... tells her tale. Beside the tickling waters of. Beside the chuckling waters of. Beside the laughing waters of. She loves the music of it all. "Again!" she agains it! " Can't hear with the waters of. The chittering waters of. Night now. Tell me, tell me, tell me elm. Night night! Tellmetale of stem or stone. Beside the rivering waters of. Hithering tithering waters of. Night."

0

Oct 19, 2017

Oct 19, 2017 at 3:38 PM UTC

donall-dempsey

HITHERING AND TITHERING WATERS OF..

HITHERING AND TITHERING WATERS OF.. Ahhh sure she's my own little Finnegans Wake. For my little skeowsha language is lava the mind is molten forever flowing. She catches tones and hones in on the last word. "pleaseyawannanicecupof...TEA?" She knows how to stick question marks on the end of things like: "...sweets?" The thunder scares her on Thursday & becomes Thundersday. The flies bother her on Friday... becomes Flieday. Not realiasing she is quoting Mr, Joyce following in his WAKE. Or she makes up her own "ONESDAY...TWOSDAY WEDDINGSDAY...FATTERDAY SOMEDAY!" She my little trinketoes my dear ***** Dumpling. I read her to sleep. Not a peep when Anna Livia Plurabelle... tells her tale. Beside the tickling waters of. Beside the chuckling waters of. Beside the laughing waters of. She loves the music of it all. "Again!" she agains it! " Can't hear with the waters of. The chittering waters of. Night now. Tell me, tell me, tell me elm. Night night! Tellmetale of stem or stone. Beside the rivering waters of. Hithering tithering waters of. Night."

49

Cyprian, from Cyprus Named for the trees of his kingdom Prince or king Livia, envy or blue Beautiful daughter of king Divaro Ruler of the kingdom In the four seas Lucius, the light He has a way with words King or prince Hilaria, cheerful Accurate for such a child Who only smiles But daughter of which king Nero, strong and aptly named Impossible strength in a lithe body Prince or king And of which kingdom Aurelia, the golden child Men have gone insane for her Of which king Felix, the lucky Rumors to carry the Tears of the water sprite King or prince or thief Avita, ancestral Sister of Cyprian But who us the king Cato, how wise The brother of Hilaria A prince is revealed Dulcia, a wonder Lost in translation Daughter of which king Of which kingdom The diviners of the south The scholars of the north The ocean people of the west The skilled hunters of the east Or maybe the mountain dwellers

0

Apr 28, 2015

Apr 28, 2015 at 8:55 AM UTC

BlackHeartedHope3

A writers choice

Cyprian, from Cyprus Named for the trees of his kingdom Prince or king Livia, envy or blue Beautiful daughter of king Divaro Ruler of the kingdom In the four seas Lucius, the light He has a way with words King or prince Hilaria, cheerful Accurate for such a child Who only smiles But daughter of which king Nero, strong and aptly named Impossible strength in a lithe body Prince or king And of which kingdom Aurelia, the golden child Men have gone insane for her Of which king Felix, the lucky Rumors to carry the Tears of the water sprite King or prince or thief Avita, ancestral Sister of Cyprian But who us the king Cato, how wise The brother of Hilaria A prince is revealed Dulcia, a wonder Lost in translation Daughter of which king Of which kingdom The diviners of the south The scholars of the north The ocean people of the west The skilled hunters of the east Or maybe the mountain dwellers